


Brothers-in-arms

by Nary



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Authority Figures, Blow Jobs, Bruises, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Gossip, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Injury, Insults, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Past Relationship(s), Power Imbalance, Scars, Undressing, Yuletide, Yuletide 2007, reacharound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:23:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nary/pseuds/Nary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Training, once the highlight of Jaime's day, has become a dismal reminder of everything he can't do.  He watches Loras Tyrell swing his sword so easily it's like an extension of his arm, and hates the lad.  His own sword arm ends at the wrist now, and his efforts to learn to fight with his off-hand are too humiliating to share with the rest of the training yard.  He goes there because he feels it's his responsibility as Lord Commander, especially now that there's no master-at-arms at the Red Keep, to keep the young knights from skewering themselves or each other, but every day he paces the yard like a caged lion, growing ever more frustrated, until he can finally leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers-in-arms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lextaci](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Lextaci).



> Thank you to urban_homestead, redcandle17, and xypharan for helpful beta services, especially for armor-related details.

Training, once the highlight of Jaime's day, has become a dismal reminder of everything he can't do. He watches Loras Tyrell swing his sword so easily it's like an extension of his arm, and hates the lad. His own sword arm ends at the wrist now, and his efforts to learn to fight with his off-hand are too humiliating to share with the rest of the training yard. He goes there because he feels it's his responsibility as Lord Commander, especially now that there's no master-at-arms at the Red Keep, to keep the young knights from skewering themselves or each other, but every day he paces the yard like a caged lion, growing ever more frustrated, until he can finally leave.

Loras is sparring with Ser Meryn Trant. The older knight is slowing, his shield arm sinking a little lower with each blow, his breath is labouring, and Jaime can tell that Loras will win without so much as breaking a sweat. He turns away for a moment to yell at two squires who've pinned down one of their comrades-in-arms and are busily shoveling sand down his tunic, when he hears the scream, high and ear-splitting. Jaime's halfway across the yard before the echoes have died, before he knows what he's doing. Trant is cradling his arm, blood oozing between his fingers, but Loras lies curled on his side on the ground, his face pale under his brown curls, and for a heartstopping moment Jaime thinks he might be dead, he's so still. But then he stirs, shakes his head, tries to sit up. "What happened?" Jaime asks either of them.

"He cut me to the fucking bone," Trant says, his face red with anger.

"You're lucky you still have your arm," Jaime says lightly. "Didn't get your shield up fast enough, am I right?" He turns to Loras, who's managed to struggle his way back to his feet. "Sloppy work, Tyrell," he tells him, and sees the young man's expression flash from rage to shame before settling into a quiet seethe.

"I'm through," Loras says, all calm on the surface, and hands off his sword and shield to a waiting squire before walking away. He carries himself with dignity, sweeps the white cloak on and leaves the yard, but Jaime can tell his side's killing him by the way he favours it.

Jaime stays behind, makes sure Trant gets tended to, and knows there's more to the story than a simple slip of the wrist. The Knight of Flowers he's familiar with doesn't make mistakes like that. "What did you do to him?" he asks Ser Meryn.

"Bashed him with the flat of my sword," the older knight tells him, wincing as the septon stitches him closed. "Caught him in the ribs and knocked him on his lily-white arse. I didn't mean to strike so hard, my lord, but he'd just cut me." As if that was an excuse.

"Control yourself next time," Jaime says sternly. Trant just arches an eyebrow. Once the wound is bandaged, he ambles out of the yard without another word. "Get back to work," Jaime orders the rest of the knights, who are milling around aimlessly in the aftermath of the accident. They mutter, but they do as he says, and soon the yard is ringing once more with the sounds of metal striking metal.

Jaime hears the young squires whispering, but they hush as soon as he gets close enough to listen in to their gossip. All he catches is the word "Renly," and piece by piece a story assembles itself in his mind. Ser Meryn must have said something in the midst of their bout that had enraged the younger knight, and Loras had swung without thinking, swung as if he was in a true battle and not just a sparring match. Trant, wounded, had retaliated with all of his force, catching Loras off-guard. "Go on," Jaime snaps at the boys, realizing they're all staring at him. "Don't you have anything you should be doing?"

He leaves the training yard, following almost unconciously the same route that Loras took, leading back toward White Sword Tower, where the Kingsguard have their spartan quarters. It is quiet at this time of day, with the exception of a pair of servants laying new rushes down on the floor of the Round Room. Jaime ignores them as he strides to the stairs and up to the third floor, where the Knight of Flowers has his chamber. There he hesitates on the landing, doubtful whether Loras either wants or needs his company. He's on the verge of continuing up to his quarters on the top level of the tower when he remembers for a moment what it was like to be that young, and that good - the unstated but ever-present envy of some of the older knights had been obvious to Jaime when he'd joined the Kingsguard more than half a lifetime ago, and surely it is obvious to Loras now. So he steels himself for what could turn into an ugly scene and raps on the door.

There's no answer right away, and he wonders if maybe he's been mistaken. Loras might have headed for the baths, or the armoury, or anywhere else when he'd left the yard rather than returning to his chamber. But after a moment Jaime hears a dull, muffled "Who is it?"

"Your Lord Commander," he replies. "Open up." He tries to make it less of an order, more a request, but it still comes out sounding harsher than he meant.

After a pause, he can hear Loras approach the door and unbar it. He pushes it open and sees the young knight half-turned away. He's in his cuirass, having taken off his gauntlets and helm and cast them aside carelessly. It's easy to see the broad, flattened dent in the left side of the plate where Ser Meryn's sword struck him. "What do you want?" Loras asks curtly, not bothering to muster the effort to be courteous.

"I thought you could use a hand," says Jaime, managing a smile at his own feeble joke. Loras doesn't smile back, just stares at him. "You need to get your armor off and let someone take a look at your ribs, in case anything's broken."

"I tried," Loras admits grudgingly, "but it hurt too much."

"Let me." Jaime can't don or remove his own armor without assistance - seven hells, he has a hard enough time with his breeches - but he fumbles at the buckles as best as he can, one-handed and, with a bit of help from a wincing Loras, finally manages to heave the cuirass off. "The smiths will beat out that dent," he says as he pushes it out of the way with his foot, then turns back to look at his brother-in-arms. Loras unlaces the padded gambeson beneath, and tries to shrug off over his head, but when he lifts his left arm too high, Jaime can see the pain on his face. "Let me cut it off," he suggests, drawing his knife. "It's only padding, don't kill yourself over it." Loras settles back on the narrow bed and holds the fabric taut to let Jaime slice through the wool-stuffed jacket, carefully, with his off-hand, down to the thin silk shirt Loras wears next to his skin. "This has to go too," Jaime says, pointing at the shirt, and Loras nods grudgingly. "I promise not to cut you," he adds lightly, and then he's drawing the blade slowly through the last layer. The fine fabric parts to reveal the pale skin underneath.

As soon as Loras is bare from the waist up, Jaime can see the fierce bruising on his left side, purple and red, already shading to black. "I think he got you," he says, keeping his tone casual.

"He wasn't fighting fair," Loras mutters under his breath, sitting up gingerly.

Jaime leaves that for the moment. "Have to check if you've cracked a rib. This is probably going to hurt," he adds unnecessarily. He feels the bruised flesh carefully, and though Loras's eyes flutter closed and he takes a shuddering breath when Jaime first touches him, there doesn't seem to be anything sharp or shifting beneath the skin. "It's not as bad as it could be," he tells him. "Does it hurt when you breathe?"

Loras shakes his head. "Just when I try to twist from the waist, or raise that arm above my shoulder."

"Good. It's a nasty bruise, maybe a little crack, but nothing's broken. A little salve, you'll be back in fighting shape in no time."

"Fine," Loras says, his voice flat, face emotionless. He gets the salve from his chest, bending carefully to reach it, and opens the little clay pot to apply the ointment. It smells of witch hazel and grease.

Jaime thinks about leaving then - it would be easier, certainly. But he's the Lord Commander, and if there's a problem between two of his knights, he needs to know about it, so he forces himself to stay. "What happened down there?"

"I slipped, my lord," says Loras, looking away, sullen. "An accident. It won't happen again."

Jaime eyes him, not believing a word he's saying. "You didn't slip. You got angry."

"So? Anger helps you fight." There's a flash of arrogance in his brown eyes, and Jaime has to suppress a smile at the idea of this young pup telling _him_ how to fight. Jaime's been a knight since this one was still at his mother's teat.

"A little, true. But let it take control and you get careless. Sloppy. If that had been a true battle, you'd have far worse than bruises to show for your moment of weakness." Loras doesn't respond, so Jaime presses him harder. "Something made you angry. I know that Meryn Trant has a tongue like a meat cleaver - did he say something to you? ...Something about Renly?"

That single word unlocks Loras's rage a second time. "That swine has no right even to speak his name!"

"What exactly did he say?" Jaime asks, both because he's hoping he can salvage this situation somehow and because, at a purely selfish level, he's damned curious what Trant could have said to the boy to get him this worked up.

Loras makes a visible effort to calm himself. "It doesn't matter what he said - he was sullying Renly's good name with his...his filth!" He can't quite regain control, and the last word rips from his throat like a bandage being pulled from a festering wound.

And then, to Jaime's shock and embarassment, the Knight of Flowers' perfect face contorts with the effort of holding back tears. "Now, there," Jaime begins, wishing he were anywhere else. "He was trying to get under your skin, and you've let him. You're going to have to grow a tougher hide, or deafer ears. Jealous people will always say things designed to wound, whether behind your back or to your face, and if you let every little slight bother you, you'll spend the rest of your days miserable."

Loras nods, snuffling, all his cockiness faded away now, leaving only a miserable youth behind. "I know. I know you're right. I just wish everyone would stop treating it like some... some huge joke. Just leave it alone."

"What?"

"You know," says Loras, shifting his weight awkwardly. "About me, and Renly."

Jaime bites back an unhelpfully sarcastic comment and just nods instead. "You were close."

"I was his squire, and he trained me, knighted me...made me everything I am."

"And people say the two of you were, ah, more than friendly."

"I loved him," says Loras simply. "More than a brother. More than anything. I would have died for him. And I still don't think anything we did was wrong," he adds, chin jutting out proudly, a little hint of his usual arrogance returning.

Now it's Jaime's turn to shift awkwardly. "I'm probably not the best judge of what's right and wrong. Some days I think I never learned to tell the difference."

"I know! You've done far worse things than I have, and you're Lord Commander now, and no one makes fun..."

The young man trails off, regretting his hasty words, but Jaime just barks a short, bitter laugh. "I took their insults and wore them like a cloak. So they call me 'Kingslayer'. It's true. I can't deny it. If you don't think what you did was wrong, then wear it as your own, and someday the slurs will start to feel almost comfortable. You're a knight of the Kingsguard, and you're the best fighter anyone's seen since...me, I suppose. Of course they'll envy you, try to knock you down, but you have to bear it."

"'Renly's little flower'? 'The Knight of Pansies'? 'I'm going to bend you over and make you take it the way Renly used to give it to you, you little bitch'? I have to bear that without retaliating?"

"If they didn't have Renly to hold over your head, they'd find something else. Believe me, it's just a convenient target because it so obviously bothers you." Jaime pauses. "Was that what he said to you?"

Loras nods, eyes downcast. "I couldn't see straight, I was so angry."

Jaime crouches in front of him, laying his hand on the lad's shoulder. "You are better than him, Loras. Don't let it go to your head, though," he adds sharply. "He took you down with those words because he knew he couldn't do it with his sword. Don't ever be that stupid again, or it will cost you dearly." Loras looks up at him, into his eyes, and before Jaime realizes what's happening, the boy's mouth is on his, strong and yielding all at once. And it's been so long since Cersei last let him touch her that suddenly, to his astonishment, he's kissing him back, letting Loras's tongue dart between his teeth. The boy's face is smooth - Jaime doesn't think he has to shave more than every three or four days yet - but his hands are sword-calloused as he cradles the back of Jaime's neck to draw him closer, and Jaime can feel how fast his heart's racing.

"You don't want me," Jaime says when they break apart for a moment's breath. It's probably true - the boy is hurting, he's angry, he's lonely, and he's reaching out for the nearest person. Maybe he thinks Jaime can be manipulated, or maybe he just wants to find another Renly to protect him. Whatever the reason, Jaime doubts very much that it has anything to do with his now-dubious physical charms. He tries not to see the stump of his right wrist, doesn't even want to touch Loras with that arm, but he can always feel the weight of his missing hand, and he knows how awful it looks.

"Don't tell me what I want, my lord," Loras replies, his voice husky, and kisses him again. Jaime doesn't stop him, doesn't really _want_ to stop him even though he suspects it would be the right thing to do. He finds it hard to imagine, oh, Barristan Selmy giving in so easily, but then, he's no Barristan Selmy, and, if he admits it, he's lonely and angry too. He feels his cock twitch to life as he wraps his good arm around the boy's slim, muscular body.

"Bar the door?" Loras says a few moments later, asking as much as recommending, and Jaime nods. From the far-away world of the training yard, he can still hear the faint sounds of clashing swords and galloping hooves, and he knows that the tower is empty except for them. But still, the possibility of being interrupted by a too-helpful servant doesn't appeal to him, so he lets Loras get up long enough to slide the bar into its place. When the young man turns around again he's already working on removing his breeches, and Jaime can see how hard he is before he's even got them off.

Jaime unlaces his own breeches, which is at least easier than doing them up again, and slides over to make room on the narrow cot for Loras. He keeps thinking to himself _What am I doing?_ , and yet he doesn't want to stop. He lets Loras push his shirt up, rough hands against his chest, hard fingers seeking his nipples. His own hand finds Loras's cock, and it feels _right_ there, thick and weighty. _Bigger than me_ , he thinks, and wants to laugh, because what does their rivalry amount to in the end but the rather pathetic comparing of cocks?

Loras is muttering "Hurry, hurry," and Jaime has to stifle the urge to laugh again, because he remembers being that age, feeling as though the world would end if he didn't get his rocks off _now now now_ , but Jaime doesn't want to hurry, he wants to enjoy this. So he strokes Loras slowly once, twice, watches as the boy's eyes begin to go glassy and his lids shiver, and then stops, stretching up to remove his shirt, deliberately taking his time.

"Don't stop," pleads Loras, but nevertheless he helps him finish undressing as best as he can, still favouring his injured side. It takes Jaime a little longer to stiffen fully, partly because he's unaccustomed to having a man's hands on him in anything other than anger, but mostly just because he's not eighteen anymore and it seems as though everything takes a little longer these days. But when Loras slides gingerly, inch by inch, down the bed and takes him in his mouth, he feels for a moment like he's young again, rising in a heartbeat to his full length. Maybe, he thinks as the other knight sucks him with quick, sloppy strokes, Loras wants to hurry not just because he's young and eager and lonely, but because he's afraid that if he moves too slowly, Jaime's going to change his mind.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says, knotting his fingers in Loras's curls to slow him down. "Take your time." And when Loras stops rushing, he's more skillful. Everything in Jaime's mind gradually condenses down to the mouth wrapped around his prick, the wet warmth of that tongue, the soft, tight press of those lips. "Better," he murmurs, and closes his eyes.

After too short a time, however, Loras stops, and Jaime's eye drift open with supreme reluctance. "My side's killing me," says Loras regretfully.

"Don't worry," Jaime replies, moving over, his back against the wall, to give Loras enough room to stretch out to his full length on the bed. "Let me take care of you instead." He pushes with his hips, rubbing his mouth-slicked cock against Loras's, and is pleased to hear the moan that movement draws from his partner. Taking Loras in his left hand, he strokes him, not too gently, propping himself up on his elbow so he can watch the young man's face. He likes to see the way Loras bites his lip between those pearl-like teeth.

"Oh, my lord," Loras gasps, thrusting hard against Jaime's palm, and with no more warning than that he's spurting, hips jerking and eyes wide but sightless. "Sorry," he mutters when he's got his breath back again.

Jaime's already wiping his hand clean on the mattress, brushing away the droplets of spunk that hit his stomach. "It's fine," he says, although in truth he's a little disappointed the boy didn't last longer. _Although_ , he reflects, _if he's anything like I was at that age, he'll be ready to go again in no time._ The memory of the long-ago day he fucked Cersei five times just because he _could_ gives him hope.

Loras lies flat on his back, cock fallen limp to one side. "If you want me to turn over for you, I will," he offers, almost shy.

Jaime arches an eyebrow, considering the offer. "Did Renly have you that way?" He hates himself for asking, but he does it anyway.

"Sometimes," Loras admits. "But just as often he'd have me fuck him. What?" he adds, seeing Jaime's look of surprise. "You think just because I'm smaller and younger that he was always on top? Renly had...varied tastes." He looks wistful, as if lost for a moment in some happier memory.

"And which did you prefer?" Jaime asks, partly because he's curious but also because he finds this unexpectedly free conversation is arousing him more than he would have thought. His cock feels as though it's trying to burst.

Loras looks at him out of the corner of his eyes, and gives him a wicked smile. "I liked best to have my arse full of him, my lord, and his hand on my prick. Can you do as much for me?"

It's impossible to resist that sly grin. Any other day, Jaime would just flip the lad over and give him what he wants, but he's sore, so Jaime forces himself to be gentle. He moves over Loras and kisses him, pressing him back down onto the narrow cot even while trying to be careful of his side. Loras draws his legs up with only a slight wince, readying himself, and Jaime hesitates for a second. "Won't it hurt? We should have something..."

"Renly had a jar of oil he said came from Lys - it smelled of roses and felt like silk. But anything slick will do... that salve, even, it's mostly grease."

Jaime retrieves for the little clay pot and smears some on his fingers. It's thick, a little sticky, and the smell always makes him think of scrapes and bruises, but it melts as he rubs it between his finger and thumb, turning slippery. It will have to do, he figures, and rubs some on his cock, some on Loras's waiting arsehole. It tingles a little, and warms as it makes contact with skin. The younger knight moans as Jaime runs a finger around his puckered ring, so he pushes into him, just up to the second knuckle, and feels how tight he is. Loras gasps, but relaxes around Jaime's finger after a few moments. "All right?" Jaime asks, and receives a nod in return.

"Do it," Loras tells him, and so Jaime takes his cock in hand and guides it to his entrance. It's a bit clumsy, he has to lean awkwardly on his other arm to get the best angle, but after some careful manoeuvring he gets it right, and starts pushing into him, slowly but steadily. Loras grunts, digs his fingers into Jaime's shoulders, but he takes it without any more of a fuss than that. Jaime can't help remembering the one time he'd tried this with Cersei - even though it had been her idea, she'd wound up screaming at him to get it out, and he'd felt terrible afterwards - terrible because he'd hurt her, and terrible because he'd enjoyed it. But judging by the look on Loras's face, he's not about to ask Jaime to stop anytime soon, which is for the best, because Jaime doesn't intend to. He pulls back, still taking it slowly, and it feels just as sweet as it did going in.

Another slow stroke, and another. Loras's legs grip him like iron bands. Jaime's in heaven, sheathed in that perfect arse. "You can go faster than that," says Loras, wriggling beneath him to show he's ready for more. He can tell the lad's hard again - _just as I expected_ , he chuckles to himself - and Jaime'd like to take him in hand, but he falls short in that department, and he needs the one that's left to keep his balance. For the moment, he settles for driving into Loras more quickly, feeling how he quivers, tenses, then relaxes around his cock with each stroke.

Loras says something, and Jaime has to bring himself back to earth for a moment. "What?"

"I said, if I get on top, you'll have your hand free."

"Oh. I suppose so." Reluctantly, Jaime pulls out for a moment, making Loras gasp. He lies back on the bed and lets the boy straddle him, facing away. Loras always moves gracefully, and this is no exception - he mounts Jaime smoothly, only wobbling slightly when he lowers himself down onto his commander's waiting cock. Without thinking, Jaime reaches his hands out to steady him, except that one of them's not there anymore and it's his stump pressing against Loras's side instead. Loras holds onto it for a moment, feeling the thick scar tissue with his fingers, before Jaime pulls what's left of his arm away.

They don't talk about it - don't talk about much of anything for the next little while. Jaime watches Loras's smooth arse and muscular back tense and relax as he rides him. He finds that if he sits up slightly, stretches just a little more than is comfortable, he can reach far enough around the lad to get a firm grip on his cock, and that's good, better than good. Every stroke he gives Loras makes the young man push back harder, squeeze him tighter, and he knows neither of them will last much longer.

It's Jaime who comes first, wrapping his good arm around Loras to haul him down so that he's as far inside him as he can possibly be when the climax spills down his body and erupts. He's left shaking and soaked with sweat, and that's when Loras finally peaks again, wringing the last drops out of him. He gasps out 'Renly' when he's in the grip of his pleasure, but Jaime pretends not to hear. It doesn't seem worth making a fuss over.

Loras rolls off him with a sigh, and Jaime sits up, even though he doesn't much feel like moving. He thinks it would be crossing some sort of line to lie there cuddling with his subordinate, however spent he might be, so he rises.

"I thought you hated me," says Loras quietly, watching Jaime dress clumsily. "The way you watch me sometimes, especially when I'm training..."

Jaime shrugs. "Some days I hate everyone with their full complement of limbs. It's nothing personal." It's not strictly true - he's far more envious of the Knight of Flowers than he is of, say, Moon Boy, because Loras, glorious Loras, is such a perfect stand-in for everything he's lost. Too bloody perfect. But Jaime doesn't say that, not wanting to ruin whatever small comfort he might have given the boy. And he still can't lace his damned breeches, but at least he only has to hold them on long enough to get up one flight of stairs and make it to the safety of his own quarters. "This won't happen again, ser," he tells Loras firmly.

Loras murmurs something noncommital and stands up, giving Jaime a splendid view of his lithe, strong body. "Let me help you with those, my lord," he says, reaching for the laces and fastening them, despite Jaime's objections. And from the look in his golden-brown eyes, Jaime can tell that Loras doesn't believe him. To be honest, he doesn't know if he believes himself, doesn't know if he'll be able to resist if - _when_ \- the lad shows up at his door in the middle of the night.

 


End file.
